Somebody That I Used To Know
by This-is-my-designx
Summary: Thalia has no memory of the past year of her life, and she suspects that the people around her aren't telling her the whole truth. As things start to unravel, she might bump into a few old acquaintances on the way. Sequel to Dangerous Liaisons. GodricxOC.
1. Prologue

Prologue

_It's dark and I can't breathe._  
_But, as it turns out, I don't need to breathe. The sensation is unfamiliar and uncomfortable and goes against everything I know._  
_I don't know where I am. I'm smothered in something that could be dirt. Buried alive, maybe? There's an arm around my waist. I stir and the grip tightens._  
_"Not yet," murmurs a voice I don't recognise, "sleep." It's odd. I don't want to sleep any more. I don't want to lie here covered in dirt and unable to breathe, pressed against a stranger. Every fiber of my being wants to break free from the unwelcome embrace and force myself up, up, up through the blanket of dirt, but even as I'm thinking this, I can feel myself drifting off, back into the abyss. The darkness is coming for me again, beckoning to me with open arms. I can't help but let it take me._


	2. Chapter 1

The thing about amnesia is that it is _so _easy for people to bullshit you, and what choice do you have but to believe them, because you don't know any different. They'll feed you all kinds of shit to keep you in the dark, "your brother's death was a tragic accident" for example, or "Sarah's away visiting family". Bullshit. I may have lost almost a year's worth of memories, but I'm not stupid. What, I'm just supposed to trust these people? To swallow their lies without question? They're supposed to be my friends, or so they say, but for all I know, that could be a bare-faced lie, too. I have no memories of any of them before meeting them post-accident.

It's not just them, either. My father hasn't been able to look me in the eye for months. Whenever I ask questions that are even slightly related to the Accident, he will reply with some vague, evasive Sort-Of-Answer before hastily changing the subject. It's infuriating, but I don't have any solid proof to challenge him or any of the others. What's the word of one amnesiac against a bunch of perfectly sane people, memories intact?

I hate this. I hate it _so _much. I'm having to retake the first year of college, what with my not being able to recall even attending college in the first place, although at this point I'm seriously considering just dropping out. My father is making me live at home this time around. He won't hear of allowing me to stay on campus, so I'm not really getting the authentic college experience. He keeps muttering to himself that he never should have let me in the first place, whatever that means.

I have three "friends". Aimee and Alex, who are married, and Mark. I don't really think much of any of them. I was grateful for them in the first three months or so when I thought they were filling me in on everything that I'd forgotten, but I wouldn't be surprised if everything they've ever told me is a lie. There's also this girl, Chloe, who made a half-hearted attempt to talk to me when I went back to college. Aimee assured me that the two of us, Chloe and I, had never been friends, but who knows.

I miss Ethan. I miss him so much that it sometimes hurts just to breathe whenever I think about him. He wouldn't have lied to me. He would have told me everything, I'm sure of it. Why did he have to die? Why would he leave me here, alone, amongst people who do nothing but lie to me? Why would he leave me at all?

We had an accident, apparently. He was driving. Swerved to avoid something, maybe, and lost control of the car. Ploughed into the front of our house. I was unconscious for almost five days. He was killed instantly. That's literally all the detail I've been told. Whenever I try to dig for more, I get brushed off. "Can we not talk about this, Thalia?" or "Let's not dwell on it".

Yeah, I don't buy it. The same way I don't buy that Sarah is away staying with family. Sarah's relationship with her family was strained at best. They didn't even exchange Christmas cards. However, according to my father, that's where she is. She hasn't phoned or written or visited. Not once. Strikes me as odd, considering she left her three children behind. Doesn't she want to know how they are? Doesn't she care that they miss her like hell?

Dad claims that he's been in contact with her. A phone call here and there, but I never seem to be anywhere in the vicinity when this happens. Convenient. He never has anything to say about her other than "she's doing fine" and "she's going to stay a bit longer" yeah, I'm sure she is.

I wish I could remember. Not knowing what has been going on this past year is infuriating. It makes me feel so weak. Nothing seems to work. Nothing!  
I saw a neuropsychologist when I was in the hospital. The way he explained it, he said that I could have damaged my warehouse of memories, if you will, or just my ability to retrieve them. "_The warehouse is intact, if you like, but you're unable to open the door."_

They're in there somewhere, my memories, locked away in some dark, inaccessible corner of my mind. Ben, the neuropsychologist, said that once I return to familiar surroundings, I might find that my memory returns quite naturally. It hasn't.

Dad keeps saying that I need to give it time. That if they're meant to return, they'll return in their own time. It might be my imagination, but I get the feeling that he's rather glad that the prospect of me regaining my memory seems dismal at best. I suppose, apart from anything else, it makes it easier for him to keep me under lock and key, what with it not being safe for me out in the big, bad world on my own. Just look at what happened to me the last time he let me out of his sight for more than two seconds!

No. That's not fair. Even if my brother's death didn't occur the way that I've been lead to believe, he still died, and despite the fact that my dad and Ethan didn't have the best relationship, my dad still loved him. If he feels even a fraction of the pain that I feel for Ethan, then it's a miracle he even gets up in the morning. In hindsight, having no memory of Ethan's death is a blessing of sorts. Knowing that he's dead is the worst pain I've ever felt; actually remembering it would surely render me inconsolable.

I push myself up from the bed I have taken up almost permanent residence in. Funnily enough, when you lose your memories, your brother and suspect the people around you of lying to you with every breath they take, you don't often feel like socialising, but quite honestly, I can't spend another moment in this house. It's starting to feel like a prison. I need to get out, even if it's just for a little while. I need to be somewhere that people don't know me. I need to be around people who don't know about the accident or the amnesia and who won't treat me like I'm made of glass, and I think I know just the place.


	3. Chapter 2

I was ready to die.

I went to the Fellowship willingly and offered them my life. They accepted my offer, unsurprisingly, and plans were immediately put into action. They were going to make a big thing of it, my death. A whole event was planned around it. I was more than happy to comply with their intentions, as long as I met the sun at the end of it.

It didn't go to plan. These things never do.

My absence was noted long before my execution date. My progeny was alerted, and from that moment I knew that dying at the hands of the Fellowship would be impossible. If I allowed them to kill me, my people, colleagues and friends alike, would only retaliate by slaughtering every last member. It wouldn't matter how many times they would insist that I came to them, that I offered them my life willingly. Who would believe them? What kind of vampire would offer themselves up for such a cause?

They would have taken one of us eventually. It made more sense for me to go to them and give my life as opposed to them forcibly taking someone else's. I had no desire to live anymore, so what harm would it have done?

I was ready to die. I am still ready to die.

"Welcome home, Sheriff. We are all very relieved." Stan rouses me from my thoughts. I say nothing, but I nod to acknowledge his words and he leaves fairly quickly. I'm glad. It's no secret that Stan and I disagree on how to combat the humans. He is all for ripping them limb from limb, damn the consequences. I, on the other hand, believe in a less violent approach.

Next in line is a young, blonde man. The Stackhouse girl's brother, I believe.

"I just want to say, I'm real sorry for what the Fellowship put you through," he says. I survey him thoughtfully for a moment or so, and he seems to take this as a dismissal.

"You helped save many lives today, Mr. Stackhouse." I say as he turns to walk away. "Please know you have friends in this area whenever you visit."

"Thanks man, but uh, I don't know if I'll be wantin' to come back any time soon."

I give him a small smile. I can't honestly say that I blame him. Rev. Newlin was all set to kill his sister, just for associating with vampires. It wouldn't be the first time he's tried something like that.

* * *

Isabel brings her human before me. Hugo, his name is. He betrayed them – Isabel, Stan, Eric, Sookie - to the fellowship in their bid to save me. I know that my people will be expecting me to punish him. To rid him of his fingers at least to serve as a warning. Past versions of myself certainly would have. I turn to Isabel.

"He's your human, is he not?"

"Yes, he is." There are crimson tear tracks running down her cheeks. His betrayal has hit her hard.

"Do you love him?" Vampires falling in love with humans isn't unheard of, but it is uncommon. Vampires falling in love at all is uncommon. We are ruled by other, less savoury emotions. For the first millennia of my life, I felt nothing but rage. I fed and fucked and killed.

"I…I thought I did." Hugo has the decency to look ashamed and Isabel struggles to keep her composure. She manages to hold back the tears, but her ability to speak has deserted her.

"It appears you love him still."

"I do. I'm sorry. But, you are my Sheriff, so do with him as you please."

Everybody in the room collectively holds their breath as they wait for me to pronounce his sentence. I can't punish this man. He was doing what he thought he had to to survive. He may not have gone about it honourably or decently, but who am I to judge? I've done worse.

"You are free to go."

Gasps and scandalised whispers fill the room. Hugo looks up in disbelief. Stan steps forward, outraged.

"_What?_" He demands.

"The human is free to go." I drag my gaze away from Hugo, a pitiful sight if there ever was one, to look at Stan. To shoot him a look that is just daring him to challenge me. If he does, I don't know if I'll be able to keep my calm. My temper has been very short of late. "And do not return," I continue, "I fear it is not safe for you here."

"This is a travesty." Stan interjects.

"This is my verdict." I welcome his insubordination. I have a lot of anger and no outlet for it. I almost want him to push this, to challenge my verdict. Breaking every bone in his body would give me so much satisfaction. Perhaps he senses that my patience is not to be tested, because he says nothing. "Eric," I call forward my child, "escort them out. Make sure he leaves unharmed."

"Yes, Godric."

Eric pulls Hugo up by the collar of his shirt and proceeds to drag him from the room, while Isabel thanks me profusely. Stan shakes his head as he walks away and I can hear him muttering to himself about "that girl" and how she has made me "soft". I can only assume he means Thalia. He's half right. Were Thalia still a presence in my life and the roles were reversed, I would hope that whoever was Sheriff would find it in themselves to let her go, but I didn't let Hugo go because I'd want someone to do the same for her, I let him go because it was the right thing to do. I haven't had anything to do with Thalia in months, so whether or not she has made me "soft" is irrelevant. If anything, I'd say it was the exact opposite.

Eric is at my side almost immediately after seeing the human out. "Hugo has been dispatched. I told him not to stop driving until he reaches the Mexican border." He kneels down in front of me and pauses for a moment before, "I've arranged for an AB- human for you. Extremely rare."

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry." I am hungry, actually. I'm so old that I don't have to feed even half as much as I did in my earlier years, but I'm having trouble recalling the last time I consumed blood, synthetic or otherwise.

"You have to feed at some point." Eric says. "I'm not going to let you starve."

"I'm not starving myself, Eric, I require very little blood anymore."

He's quiet for a moment or two. I can tell he's struggling with himself. I don't have to wait long to find out what he's struggling with. "You were happy. Before. With that human. What happened?"

I'm silent. Even if I wanted to talk about it, I wouldn't know where to begin. I have no idea how to accurately describe the emptiness that threatens to overwhelm me every single day. Wouldn't talk about it even if I could. It pains me to even think about it. It hurts. That's as much detail as I'm willing to go into.

"Nothing happened, Eric, we just ended up going our separate ways."

"Bu—"

I stand up, effectively cutting him off. This is not a conversation I am willing to have. Not now, not ever. "I'll be in my room if you need me."

* * *

I shut my door and lock it behind me for good measure. Perhaps I was a little short with Eric. I know that he's not trying to pry, that he's only concerned with my wellbeing, but given the choice dying and confronting my feelings concerning a certain human, I'd pick the former. In fact, I did pick the former. Had everything gone to plan, I would be long gone by now.

I wonder how she is. Better, I hope. As far as I know, the crash did nothing to her physically that would cause any long-term damage. Her mind, on the other hand.

I wonder if she remembers, well, anything. She mustn't remember me, because if she did I know for a fact that she would have come looking for me if only to slap me around the face. Because I did it again, I made the decision for her. I left to keep her safe, made sure that her friends would tell her nothing of my existence or my part in her life, so that she could live her life without putting her life at risk every time she stepped out of her house. She'd have my head if she knew.

There's a quiet knock on my door. I assume that it's Eric, come to coax me out, but when I reluctantly pull open the door, I find a young woman. She looks to be in her early twenties at the most. She's got long red hair, brown eyes and pale skin. I know immediately that this is the AB- human that Eric arranged for me. I'm about to turn her away, to tell her that she's not needed, but something stops me. I don't know what it is, exactly. Perhaps it's the fact that I am, in fact, quite hungry. I think it has more to do with the fact that I'd gotten used to intimate company, and then to have it snatched away has left me craving. I could easily get the sustenance I need to survive from Tru Blood, but that is not what I want.

I step aside without a word to let her in and then lock the door once she's inside. Not because I'm planning on doing anything harmful, but because I take blood from humans so rarely that it's become something of an intimate act for me. Something that I'd rather not do out in the open with everyone watching.

"What's your name?" I ask as I sit down on my bed and gesture for her to take a place next to me, or somewhere thereabouts.

"Katie."

"Have you done this before, Katie?"

She nods.

"Well then," my fangs descend with a _click, _"let us proceed."


	4. Chapter 3

I pull on a jacket over my hoodie since it's bound to be cold out. January isn't known for its warm weather. I pull on my comfiest shoes – a pair of worn-down leather boots and open my door open quietly. Dad is still up, I think, but as long as I'm quiet, I should be able to sneak out. One of the few perks of having overprotective parents is that it _really _teaches you to successfully creep out. This isn't the first time I've done it, and I'm sure it won't be the last. The landing is dark; the younger ones were put to bed hours ago, but I can see light coming from underneath the door that leads to the living room. I can hear the faint buzz of the television. I avoid the top step of the staircase – it creaks – and step straight onto the one below. This isn't my normal escape route, my path of choice being out the window, but the last thing I need is to fall and give myself another head injury. I begin my descent, trying as hard as humanly possible not to make a sound. Whilst it's true that I am most certainly a professional at sneaking out, my dad is almost as good at sniffing out any attempt to go against his rules. I'm serious. It's like he has a sixth sense for these things.

I'm almost half way down when someone knocks on the door. I curse under my breath and backtrack as quickly as I possibly can. I'm almost back at the top, having silently almost-sprinted up the stairs, when the living room door opens and light spills into the hallway. Dad looks up at me and I pray that it's still dark enough up here that he can't see my attire, for he'd realise exactly what I was up to in five seconds flat, maybe even less.

Fortune, however, seems to favour me for once, because he only throws me a small smile before turning his attention to the front door. He wrenches it open and I suppress a groan. Stood on the porch is Mark. Mark is, apparently, one of my friends, although I'm fairly certain that this is another fabricated fact. I can't imagine any version of events that would lead me to be friends with this boy. Although easy on the eyes, he is arrogant, ignorant, self-obsessed and just down-right nasty. Not even Aimee and Alex seem to like him much, which begs the question, why do we even hang out with him?

Of course, my dad loves Mark, and Mark loves my dad. He's always here, although he chalks that down to coming to see me, which is bullshit.

"Mark!" My dad exclaims joyfully, stepping back to let him in. Mark steps over the threshold and throws me a cocky, self-assured smile. Ugh. "Mark's here, Thalia!"

"So I see." I reply dryly.

The two of them move towards the living room and I take the opportunity to shrug off my jacket and kick my boots off before making my way downstairs for the second time. Quite honestly, I'd much prefer to shut myself in my room and not interact with either of them, especially not the two of them together, but I've done that before and it only ends with a scalding from my father. He thinks it impolite, which is rich coming from him.

I walk reluctantly into the room and sit on the sofa furthest away from the one they've settled themselves onto. Their conversation is of no interest to me, golf not being my area of expertise, so I contribute nothing. My presence seems to be enough, however, so I turn my attention to the television.

"_You kidnapped a prominent member of our community," _says someone that I can't see. On screen are a man and a woman. The man, Rev. Steve Newlin of the Fellowship of the Sun, according to the text beneath them, looks vaguely familiar, although I can't put my finger on _why. _I'm certain I've seen his face before, but I just can't put any memory to it. I figure that the most likely situation is that I saw him on TV at some point during the past year.

"_He volunteered!" _The woman, Sarah, protests.

"_He wanted to meet the sun, we were happy to oblige. That's no crime!"_ Rev. Newlin says. He's got a nasty looking bruise on his forehead. I wonder if the person they allegedly kidnapped did that to him.

"_He came to us!" _Sarah adds. Sarah has big, blonde hair and looks like the sort of woman that pulls out all the stops on the whole Sweet and Innocent Reverend's Wife Act, but would be all too willing to get a little crazy in order to get her own way.

"_Because everyone wants to be burned at the stake." _The screen cuts away to another woman. Nan Flanagan of the AVL. She doesn't look at all impressed. "_You used your tactics and religious institution as an anti-vampire terrorist enclave."_

"_The constitution gives us the right to defend ourselves." _

"_You attacked us."_

"_You murdered my father!"_

"_That's an allegation. This is a fact: you and your church armed a suicide bomber that killed vampires _and _humans."_

"_We are fighting for God's green earth and daytime and Christmas and Easter eggs and all that is sacred and good. We are fighting for," _Sarah seems to be at a loss for words, having gotten a little emotional during what I'm sure she imagined was a rousing, inspirational bit.

"_Human rights," _Steve finishes for her._ "HUMAN rights."_

"_May I finish my thoughts?" _Sarah puts in, clearly irritated at being spoken over.

"_What? You were done."_

Sarah laughs bitterly. "_If he's not the centre of attention, he just flips out."_

"_How can you have meaningful dialogue with these people?" _Nan Flanagan says. I'm with her on that one. Rev. Newlin and his wife seem just a _tiny _bit crazy.

"_You need to read you some St. Paul missy," _says the Reverend.

"_I hate your hair," _says Sarah.

Remarkable.

"Huh?"

Dad and Mark are both looking at me and I realise that I must have spoken aloud.

"Nothing. I was just," I gesture towards the screen.

"What's going on?" Marks asks, his attention shifting from my dad to the TV.

"Fellowship of the Sun kidnapped a vampire, apparently."

"Oh yeah, heard about that," he replies. "Some sheriff guy."

"Vampires have sheriffs?" My dad cuts in, raising his eyebrows.

"Sure. They have their own political system. Sheriffs, Kings, Queens. The Authority," says Mark.

I prepare myself for what I'm sure will be a very long and very tiresome rant from my father about how vampires are abominations, about how they should all be rounded up and burned at the stake, but it never comes.

"Huh. How about that."

I know my dad too well to think that he has a new-found tolerance for vampires. I've heard him go on about the "disgusting creatures that walk this earth" too many times, so I can't quite help myself.

"What, no Vampires Are Monsters and Should Be Burned tirade? I thought you'd be the first to agree with Reverend whatshisface."

"I just think we should leave them alone, is all. Messing around in vampire business does more harm than good."

"Oh, really?" I'm kind of amused. "Why the change of heart? Last I was aware, you hated vampires."

He casts a sideways glance at Mark, who shrugs almost indiscernibly and I realise that I must have touched upon something they're trying to keep from me. It's been like this ever since the accident. Whenever I say something that I guess hits a little too close to something they don't want me to know, they cast each other these little "subtle" glances that they think I can't see. It's the same with Aimee and Alex. Glances, awkward expressions, general evasiveness. Do they honestly think I can't see them? Do they _really _believe that I haven't picked up on anything? I mean, Jesus. It makes me so angry.

I could confront them. Call them out on it. I've considered it at least a million times, but I know that I'll be brushed off. My allegations labelled "irrational". So I do nothing.

"I just think we ought to leave them alone. No good can come from mixing with vampires."

"Mhm. Yeah. Sure," I push myself up from the sofa. I've not even been in the room ten minutes and I've already had more than enough of the both of them for today. "I'm going to bed."

Neither of them say anything, so I leave the room without another word.

* * *

I've been in bed for at least an hour by the time Mark leaves. He doesn't come up to say goodbye, which reinforces the opinion that he only comes round to hang with my dad, rather than to see me. I hear dad come up to bed shortly after.

I can't sleep. I keep going over and over the conversation in my head. I come up with about 12 different versions, the majority of which I accuse them of lying to me, and then they tell me the truth. Of course, I have to cut off when it gets to that bit because I don't actually know what the truth is, or if there even is a truth so to speak. What if I'm just imagining the whole thing? What if the awkward expressions and sideways glances and evasiveness are all just a part of my imagination? What if it's just paranoia run wild?

I must wind down at some point, because I eventually find myself drifting off, still wondering if I've imagined the whole thing, and also how Mark knows so much about vampire politics.


	5. Chapter 4

Katie is the first human I've fed off of in a long while, having preferred to sustain myself using Tru Blood ever since its inception.

Well, that's not strictly true. I fed from Thalia, but that wasn't just for sustenance, it was more about intimacy than anything else.

Correction: Katie is the first human to whom I have no connection, emotional or otherwise, that I have fed from in a long while. It is not nearly as satisfying as I remember it to be.

Oh, don't get me wrong, her blood is just as good as I imagined it would be, but the experience as a whole lacks…something. I haven't quite figured out what.

I disengage myself from Katie's neck as gently as I can, retracting my fangs as I go. The punctures on her neck are still spilling blood. It runs down her skin, trickling down into her hair, staining her shirt. I'm not all too keen on the idea of giving her my blood to heal, but I also can't begrudge her that, not when she has just all too willingly given me hers.

"Do you need me to…?" I trail off, gesturing to her neck.

"Oh," her hand goes to the wound and she wipes the blood away. "No, that's okay. Thank you."

I'm about to ask her if she's sure and offer her a change of clothing, since the shirt that she's wearing is now blood-stained – not exactly a socially acceptable form of attire – when a voice from downstairs reaches my ears. Had I still been feeding, I wouldn't have noticed it, distracted by my (somewhat lukewarm) bloodlust, but I hear it loud and clear.

"_I have a message for you all from Reverend Steve Newlin._"

"Stay here," I tell Katie. I'm downstairs in a matter of seconds. Everybody is facing in the same direction, gazes fixated on a young man I recognise as a member of the Fellowship. A few people exchange curious glances, a few shrugs, until he opens his jacket and his intention becomes clear as day.

Silver chains encircle his entire torso. Attached to those chains are dozens of wooden bullets and explosives. The collective gasp that ensues throughout the room is cut short when he presses down on the detonator, no hesitation whatsoever.

* * *

I wake up the next morning with a headache. I wonder in an off-hand sort of way if it's the build-up of memories trying to force their way back into my conscious memory. Probably not, but a girl can dream.

I get out of bed, shower and brush my teeth, my usual routine. I pull on a pair of grey sweatpants and a black hoodie before getting back into bed. It's a Saturday, so I don't have any classes to go to. It's also raining. Really throwing it down. The sky outside is a dark grey – almost black – and the rain is hitting the windows with such force that I could swear that they're shaking some.

I pull my laptop into my lap and open it. It takes a moment or two to come to life. As I'm waiting for it to wake up properly, I traipse downstairs in the hope of finding something to eat. It's strangely quiet for a Saturday morning. I glance at the clock in the hallway. 11AM. By this time Lucy, Danny and Josh are usually up and running around the house, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Well, not really. But that's what it sounds like.

I find my dad in the kitchen, reading a newspaper. He looks up when I enter the room.

"Mornin', darlin'."

"Hey," I open the fridge. Nothing except a pint of milk, three quarters gone. "Where're the kids?"

"Playdate."

"With who?"

"Uh, Liz Harrigan's kids."

Liz Harrigan is a soccer mom in every sense of the word. She is 5'3" of lacquered blonde hair and immaculate manicures. She drives one of those mini-van type cars and is forever carting around her eldest two children to various sporting events. She's also one of Sarah's friends.

I nod and turn to the cupboards. I pull one of them open to find them all but bare… how unsurprising. My father hasn't quite gotten into the swing of being a single parent. Without Sarah around, the majority of things – cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping etc. – are going undone. I do the cleaning and the laundry myself; it keeps me busy and if I didn't do it, it wouldn't get done at all and our household would descend into squalor. The grocery shopping I would be more than happy to do, but it's difficult when I'm not allowed to use my car. I mean, sure I could get the bus, but how would I get all the stuff back home on my own afterwards?

"You know," I grab an empty glass from the side and fill it with cold water from the tap. "You really need to get into a habit of doing a weekly food shop." I take a sip from the glass. "At least until Sarah gets back, anyway."

I'm watching him closely, trying to gauge his reaction to my mentioning Sarah's name. He waves his hand in a gesture that says "I know" and I take that as my cue to leave. I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting. For him to visibly flinch, perhaps? For him to turn white and break whatever he was holding at the time as his grip tightened as he fought not to let the cat, whatever cat it might be, out of the bag.

I return to my room. My laptop is open and waiting, the desktop open where I left off last night; scrolling through photographs from the past year, trying to jog my memory. I sit cross-legged in the middle of my bed and pull the laptop back onto my lap. It's open on a collection of photos taken at some point during the past year, I guess.

I click the _next _button and the screen is filled by a photo of me and Aimee. I look happy. We both do. My smile is genuine, not the awkward grimace-like thing I feel like I'm wearing 90% of the time nowadays. I stare at the photo, taking in every single minor detail. The black dress I'm wearing that makes my skin look just a little too pale. The way Aimee has her hair braided like a headband. The gold bracelet on my left wrist, the silver ring on Aimee's left hand. The ladder in my tights. The faint bruise on Aimee's calf.

I'm leaning so close to the monitor that I can see my reflection in the darker parts of the screen.

"Remember," I say slowly, enunciating every syllable. "Remember, you moron." I hold my breath, staring at the reflection of my eyes on the screen. They stare back almost mockingly, like they _know. _

Nothing. No influx of memories, not even a bit of déjà vu. I lean back and let out of huff of frustration. I mutter to myself about the unfairness of it all, as if that'll change a thing, and press _next. _The next photo is from the same night, only this time Aimee and I don't seem to be aware of the photograph being taken. We're chatting animatedly, it looks like. I can see Alex off in the background, talking to a disgruntled looking Mark. There are other people, but I don't recognise any of them.

I sigh and begin again, taking in every single detail of the photograph. The way Aimee is standing with one hand on her hip, the other she's running through her hair. The way my hair has fallen over my shoulder so that it tumbles down my back, exposing my neck. The small, red puncture marks on my neck that stand out against the startling whiteness of my skin – amplified, I'm sure, by the flash of the camera.

Wait. What?

_Puncture marks? _

That can't be right, surely? Some sort of defect, maybe? A trick of the light.

I zoom in and lean as close to the screen as I can get without touching it. I brush my fingers against it, hoping that I'll find that it was just a speck of dirt on the screen, but no. I have two very obvious punctures on my neck. I raise my hand and feel around on the left side of my neck. There's nothing there. Healed over.

Alright, now I'm getting interested. This _proves _that they're hiding something! Was I involved with a _vampire? _It seems unlikely, knowing me, but the evidence is right there.

Wow.


End file.
